“Which doesn’t make sense,” Remi said.
Karl added, “If he already had the courier bag, why have us come all the way out here?”
“Exactly.” Sam took one last look around to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind, then closed the tailgate. “Only one reason I can think of. A setup, to begin with. He’d already been out to the plane, found this courier bag, didn’t want you or Zakaria to know he was in possession of it, and decided to use you as the means to an end.”
“Unfortunately for him,” Remi said, “the plan backfired.”
12
Gere kept one hand on his prisoner as he kicked at the door, then yanked Zakaria in by his arm. The man murmured something through the gag around his mouth. Whatever it was, Gere wasn’t interested. He dragged him upstairs, then locked him in the office. When he came back down, he started to go over what he was going to tell the boss. For a man who liked the outward appearance of only being semi-interested in the whereabouts of this plane and the courier bag that was supposed to have been on it, Rolfe Wernher was definitely into micromanaging.
That meant if he didn’t call him right away, the guy was likely to have a heart attack. But before he could think of a good story, Rolfe walked in. As usual, he was dressed in a silk suit — gray today — his only concession to the heat was the open collar of his crisp white shirt. “I expected a call before now,” Rolfe said.
“The bag wasn’t there.”
A vein pulsed in Rolfe’s temple, and his nostrils flared slightly. Several seconds of silence passed before he spoke. “Where is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure?”
“We got there just as the Americans returned from the downed plane. They didn’t have it with them. Durin thought maybe they’d already been out to the plane. It makes sense, since they got back far sooner than it should’ve taken. At least according to what Durin told me.”
“Where is he?”
Gere glanced away before meeting Rolfe’s gaze. “Dead.”
“How?”
“The American killed him.”
“Fargo killed Durin?”
“To be fair, Durin tried to kill them first.”
Rolfe’s lips pressed together as he processed the information. “You’re a fool. Durin set us up. The Fargos couldn’t have had the bag. They flew in the night before. When would they have had time to get out there?”
Gere was almost afraid to ask the obvious. “Then who has it?”
“Durin, you idiot. Which presents a big problem, since he’s dead.” Rolfe’s gaze bored into him. “You’re the one who handled him. You don’t find it odd that he didn’t take you out to the plane before now? Why would he have let the Fargos go searching for those two brothers without being there himself? Especially when he knew how valuable that bag was to us?”
Gere shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“He already had it.”
“He couldn’t,” Gere said. “He had to go visit his sister. She was sick or something.”
“And how long was he gone?”
“A couple of days…” Gere felt his face heat up at the apparent realization that Durin had played him.
“Where does he live?” Rolfe demanded.
“I don’t know.”
Rolfe drew his gun, pointing it at Gere. “Then you’re completely useless to me. Aren’t you?”
His eyes went wide. “I–I… Maybe Zakaria knows where it is. I brought him here.”
Rolfe lowered the gun, waiting.
“Durin took their friend Zakaria hostage. I have him upstairs,” Gere said. “Durin accused him of going to the plane and getting the bag, but Zaharia told me he didn’t have it. The Fargos, either.” Realizing all this did was prove Rolfe’s point that Durin had played them for fools, he added, “I did, however, tell the Fargos if they wanted to see Zakaria again, bring the courier bag to us.”
“Wait here,” Rolfe said. He walked up the stairs. Gere heard the walls shake from whatever Rolfe was doing up there. Gere worried about the safety of anyone getting in the man’s way — including himself, he thought, seeing the look in Rolfe’s eyes as he stormed down the stairs, gun in hand.
“This is your fault,” Rolfe said, then shot him in the thigh, the gunshot echoing in the confines of the room.
He fell to the floor, crying out, his ears ringing.
Rolfe narrowed his gaze. “If you weren’t my nephew, I’d kill you. I still may.” He strode to the door and opened it. “When your hostage regains consciousness, see if you can’t get Durin’s address out of him. If not, you better hope the Fargos find this courier bag and bring it to you.”
13
While Sam drove, Remi read the logbook to them, ending with, “Casablanca, January nineteen forty-six. No cargo. Very odd…”
Sam checked his rearview mirror, then glanced over at Remi. “What is?”
“Those were the last entries. Didn’t the plane go down six months after that date? Or did I misunderstand?”
“You’re right,” Karl said. “At least that’s the way we heard it.”
“Then why no entry?” she asked.
“Good question. Karl and Brand can take the book and talk to Selma about it,” Sam said as his phone rang.
It was Ruben Haywood, a case officer for the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, returning Sam’s call. They’d met after Sam was recruited by DARPA and attended the CIA’s Camp Perry training facility during covert operative school.
The two had clicked during the six weeks of intense training in weapons, fighting, and survival skills. They’d been fast friends ever since, never mind that Rube was the closest thing they had to a concierge international law enforcement connection. “Where are you now?” Rube asked.
“Driving back to Marrakesh,” Sam replied. “We’re heading to the hotel where Karl and Brand’s uncle is waiting. They’re here with us. On speakerphone, by the way.”
“Okay. I’ll get in touch with one of my contacts out there and start a quiet investigation into the shooting. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something in the background on the dead guy that’ll help lead to the kidnappers. Does Zakaria have any family in the area?”
Sam glanced at the brothers in his rearview mirror.
“A cousin,” Brand said. “Lina.”
“You catch that?” Sam asked.
“Got it,” Rube said. “What about talking to her in the morning? See if she knows anything that’ll help?”
“We’ll do that.”
“In the meantime, try to get some sleep. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”
“Likewise,” Sam said.
The next morning, Sam, Remi, Karl, and Brand drove straight to the riad where Zakaria had been staying with his cousin. They got out of the car, Karl staring at the salmon-colored walls of the three-story home. He turned to Sam. “What are we supposed to say? Lina’s going to know something’s wrong the moment she realizes he’s not here with us.”
If Zakaria’s cousin was overcome with worry, chances were that she’d be too emotional to give them the information they needed. “Let’s take it slow. See what, if anything, she knows.”
They walked up to the blue keyhole-shaped door, and Sam knocked.
The man who answered the door spoke only Arabic, but he recognized Karl and Brand and stepped aside to let them in. Like many of the grand houses in the area, the residence was built around a wide courtyard, this one paved with blue and white tiles in a beautiful mosaic pattern and shaded by palms. In its center, a fountain bubbled. An open arcade hall surrounded the courtyard, each arch framing a door or window that led into the house.